Sharing my name
I have an identity problem. I share my name with someone else. Yes, almost everyone shares his or her name with someone somewhere. But I share my name with the lead singer/guitarist of a hair band, RATT, popular in the 80s. Thanks to him I am utterly ungoogleable, as my now wife discovered when we met 10 years ago. Dating due diligence bore no fruit when she tried to find out whether I had been arrested for rape, murder, or outstanding parking tickets thanks to the deluge of fan-sites, forums, and photo galleries of THE Stephen Pearcy. My meager accomplishments are swamped on the internet by his music and libertine lifestyle. It has taken time, but I have finally accepted this.
I first learned of his existence when I was a teacher in the late 80s. Students would put up drawings on my classroom door of a rat with a beard, glasses, and floppy hat that were my trademarks alongside articles about the band. In the early 90s I would occasionally find reviews of his records in free local music and entertainment newspapers and cut out the descriptions of "Steve Pearcy's phenomenal guitar work and vocals." We would not form an awkward connection with him until the birth of the internet in the late 90s.
I first learned of his existence when I was a teacher in the late 80s. Students would put up drawings on my classroom door of a rat with a beard, glasses, and floppy hat that were my trademarks alongside articles about the band. In the early 90s I would occasionally find reviews of his records in free local music and entertainment newspapers and cut out the descriptions of "Steve Pearcy's phenomenal guitar work and vocals." We would not form an awkward connection with him until the birth of the internet in the late 90s.
After I got a computer with internet access, I would occasionally get strange emails to my compuserve email address. "Steve Pearcy I want your bod." "Steve Pearcy you rock." "Are you THE Steve Pearcy?" At first I didn't make the connection with my namesake, but then I realized they had searched the compuserve email address list for the rocker and found me. I loved that people would assume a famous rock musician would have an email address with his real name. I must admit I enjoyed it somewhat as it is not often that a private school math teacher gets emails from strange women desiring his scrawny "bod."
I usually either ignored the emails or replied they may have been looking for someone else. A couple times I replied that I was indeed Steve Pearcy, which was true. Each time she (they were always women, as he had a three groupie per day habit) would be thrilled for a couple emails back and forth. But then they would realize, perhaps when sober, that the rocker would not have an email conversation with a fan despite the example of Nick Hornby's Judith, Naked and they would stop replying. Perhaps it was my good grammar and syntax that clued them in that I was not the Steve Pearcy they were looking for. Perhaps I did not recall their unusual piercings. I'll never know.
The best confusion over my identity was a series of phone calls about ten years ago. My friend David was staying with me in my apartment and told me when I came in one evening with the woman I eventually married that "your girlfriend LT called a couple times." Of course my future wife found this very interesting. The three of us sat down to discuss this development. I told my girlfriend that I didn't have another girlfriend. I dialed *69 to find out where the call came from. The area code was in Arkansas. The three of us were trying to figure out what was going on when the phone rang.
I answered and the woman on the line asked in somewhat slurred speech if I was Stephen Pearcy. I said I was. She said she was my "girlfriend LT." I said I wasn't sure if I remembered her. She said she met me after a show and told me I was her boyfriend. That's when I realized she was another Stephen Pearcy worshiper. She asked when I was going to come by again. I told her soon. I could picture the woman, probably wearing a worn Ratt t-shirt, blitzed out of her mind, already amazed that she managed to find the Steve Pearcy on directory assistance, imagining him mounting her in her trailer in Arkansas.
I usually either ignored the emails or replied they may have been looking for someone else. A couple times I replied that I was indeed Steve Pearcy, which was true. Each time she (they were always women, as he had a three groupie per day habit) would be thrilled for a couple emails back and forth. But then they would realize, perhaps when sober, that the rocker would not have an email conversation with a fan despite the example of Nick Hornby's Judith, Naked and they would stop replying. Perhaps it was my good grammar and syntax that clued them in that I was not the Steve Pearcy they were looking for. Perhaps I did not recall their unusual piercings. I'll never know.
The best confusion over my identity was a series of phone calls about ten years ago. My friend David was staying with me in my apartment and told me when I came in one evening with the woman I eventually married that "your girlfriend LT called a couple times." Of course my future wife found this very interesting. The three of us sat down to discuss this development. I told my girlfriend that I didn't have another girlfriend. I dialed *69 to find out where the call came from. The area code was in Arkansas. The three of us were trying to figure out what was going on when the phone rang.
I answered and the woman on the line asked in somewhat slurred speech if I was Stephen Pearcy. I said I was. She said she was my "girlfriend LT." I said I wasn't sure if I remembered her. She said she met me after a show and told me I was her boyfriend. That's when I realized she was another Stephen Pearcy worshiper. She asked when I was going to come by again. I told her soon. I could picture the woman, probably wearing a worn Ratt t-shirt, blitzed out of her mind, already amazed that she managed to find the Steve Pearcy on directory assistance, imagining him mounting her in her trailer in Arkansas.
I asked what she was up to and how she was doing since I last saw her. I could barely understand much of what she said--you try deciphering a drunk Arkansas accent--so I eventually told her I was looking forward to seeing her and we hung up. Plus my friend and girlfriend were in hysterics on my couch and it was hard to keep an intimate conversation going with that going on. My guess is "LT" crashed soon thereafter and couldn't remember who she had drunk dialed when she woke up. She may have been confused later by the long distance calls to Washington, DC on her phone bill but never called again.
Several years ago Robin and I were at a Mets/Nationals game in the old Shea Stadium and while I was away getting snacks Robin overheard two guys behind us talking about Stephen Pearcy. She told them she was married to him. They were confused when I returned with peanuts and drinks but had a good laugh when I showed them my driver's license.
Several years ago Robin and I were at a Mets/Nationals game in the old Shea Stadium and while I was away getting snacks Robin overheard two guys behind us talking about Stephen Pearcy. She told them she was married to him. They were confused when I returned with peanuts and drinks but had a good laugh when I showed them my driver's license.
Those phone calls nine years ago were my final flirtation with Steve's women. I have since abandoned the email account that provided access to his groupies. In any case I suppose it wouldn't be right to carry on with his women any longer as I've gotten married. Evidently the women have probably moved on too, perhaps to guys who play guitar in the local bar bands across America. But it is nice to think that women around the country dream wistfully of me as they go to sleep at night, even if it's only my name.
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